Yesterday, I went to a broadcast of a play. Last year, I went to National Theatre’s production of “Frankenstein” and was delighted to see they were rebroadcasting it. So I got tickets for me and my friends and we went to see Frankenstein, as directed by a the wonderful Danny Boyle.
I came at it from a whole nother angle; I recently started a new book, one that deals with genetic engineering and the many interesting quandaries that arrise because of our tendency to do things because we can. I was much more in tune to Frankenstein’s monster this go around; I realized I had been approaching my story from a human-centric viewpoint. Silly author…
So as I was getting into that groove, my brain did a funny thing. It started replaying this video of a cat. And it was funny. And it almost made me laugh out loud at several, completely inappropriate points during the broadcast.
I managed to get back on track… it was a strange deviation. Perhaps it was some failsafe, activated when not being attracted to Frankenstein’s monster is impossible. Because Benedict Cumberbatch.
All that aside, it was a fantastic production. Really visceral, really physical. It was tremendous.
And then still, there’s this. 
H.G. Bells 